


not at all like sunflowers

by pamyurin



Category: Samurai Champloo
Genre: F/M, i wrote this a long long time ago so i will upload it here at long last
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamyurin/pseuds/pamyurin
Summary: a collection of shorts about mugen/fuu and their relationship during and after the search for the sunflower samurai.





	1. 10 things i hate about you

He thought a lot about why she let him touch her like he did. God, she was so innocent. And he hated it, hated the way that he couldn’t just defile her like all the rest, and couldn’t just throw her out when he was done. He fucking hated that she didn’t even realize how bad he wanted to slam her up against the wall and take her, like some dumb melodrama. And he hated that he never asked her to go further than she wanted, because damn it, he wanted it, and that should’ve been what really mattered. 

But he especially hated when they were like this, with her breath on his neck as she snored beside him. He hated that he could have her, if he just reached over and lifted that covering of hers. He could do whatever he damn wanted. Yeah, she’d take it. He knew that for sure. 

And he hated the way she murmured softly in her sleep, and rolled to press against him, her little body aiming to seep in his warmth. He shouldn’t have had any warmth left for her; it should’ve been all used up. But she could get right at it, like it was there, flowing beneath his skin, an entire reserve just for her. 

He hated that he let her let him touch her. He hated that she wasn’t just some whore. He hated that she kept him around, and he for sure, most definitely, hated that he could never hate her.


	2. just a stupid girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are a LOT of curses in this

There was no way she didn’t know that it wasn’t all flowers and sunshine. She couldn’t be stupid enough to expect all sunny weather and music. She’d been through stuff on her own, been taken hostage more than any average broad. Watched her dad get fucking killed right in front of her eyes. If that wasn’t enough to fuck a person up, he didn’t know what was.

At least, that’s what he told himself, as he slipped into her room at night and peeled open her kimono. Couldn’t be anyone so dumb as to think that everything was just gonna be okay, he thought, as he watched her pale hands grip the sheets and her back arch up off the bed. 

Not a single fucking person could remain so unscathed after all that shit. She’d watched him kill people, hadn’t she? She’d seen swords clash against swords, and become inevitably slicked in blood. She wasn’t goddamn blind. Wasn’t that goddamn stupid, couldn’t be. Couldn’t. And this stuck in his head, a mantra, as he collapsed beside her onto white sheets and let his sweat drench the pillows. He kept it playing mercilessly as she rolled over and snuggled up close, her face so young still, her big brown eyes stuck to him and that stupid pink smile on those stupid pink lips. 

She couldn’t be that fucking oblivious. He knew it, and yet he let her say it, “I love you, Mugen,” and let her bury her little head in the crook of his neck. Bitch. If she knew anything, she’d keep her fucking mouth shut. Sometimes he just wanted to fucking kill her. Instead, though, like he always did, he brought his arms up behind her and drew her in close, because damn, if she wanted to be the fucking stupidest bitch in the entire world, then goddamn, it wasn’t his fucking choice.


	3. he'll be here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mugen gets mad when fuu misses jin

It pissed him off. Well, most things pissed him off. But nothing pissed him off more than her stupid face when Glasses didn’t show up. She got so concerned, like it was gonna tear her insides apart or something. He could’ve killed Jin. Of course, he never would. It’d only make Fuu cry. And he did that enough as it was—maybe, even, a little too much. But he wasn’t about to let that thought slow him down. If he let thoughts like that tug at him all the time, he’d never get anywhere. He’d fucked up too much shit, ruined too many lives. Just had to keep going.

He told her she was stupid, yeah. “He’s a grown man. He’s got needs too, ya know?”

“But Jin’s not like that,” she insisted. 

“The hell he isn’t.” He sprawled on his tatami mat, letting out a deep breath, as if he was gonna go to sleep right then. “He’s as much a man as anyone else.” He pointed straight at her, so she knew he was talking to her: warning her, kind of. “All men are exactly the damn same, got it, girlie?” 

She frowned at him for a moment, as if she had to think his words over. Like she didn’t believe him—he could pretty much figure that he was at least worldlier than her, even if he couldn’t spell his own name. At least he knew how to protect himself. She could hardly even move without someone capturing her and hauling her away. How could she trust that anyone was different? Everyone she’d ever known had left her or betrayed her in some way. She was stupid as hell for even having a little hope that it wasn’t all like that. Maybe that’s why it made him so damn mad when she smiled at him like he was some pathetic kid, just then. 

And he hated the way that she said Jin’s name. Warmly, happily. Like it fit in her damn mouth. It probably did. Mugen had to admit—Jin was alright. At least better than he was. And he was probably a perfect fucking match for Fuu, which made him even angrier. 

“You don’t like Jin,” she said sadly. Why’d she have to talk like she knew so much more than him? Why’d she have to go and say it like that—like Jin was some great guy, and Mugen just hadn’t discovered it yet? Fuck that. He knew. He knew that Jin was playing at being some saint. But at the end of the day, it was all the same: fuck, kill, eat, repeat, until you die. And it was the damn same for Jin, whether he pretended it wasn’t or not. 

“Got that right,” he told her. He rolled over, and watched as she slowly peeled herself away from the window and closed the blinds. She repeated to herself that he was safe and that he would be back in the morning, before she went to sit down criss-cross-applesauce next to Mugen, so that she could see his face again. She even put her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands over them. How could she even pretend like she knew an ounce more about the stupid fucking earth when she went around doing shit like that? He had to remind himself that she really was as much of a kid as he could get. Why’d he have to be so damn jealous over a kid? Why’d he have to care at all about her stupid ass? 

He did, though. It was stupid as hell, as he knew it. 

“Go to bed,” he said. “We’re going to keep going tomorrow, whether that bastard’s here or not.”

“He’ll be here,” she decided, looking down at his face. She let out a small yawn, and Mugen swore he could see the back of her throat. She had better shut her damn mouth. Never knew what she’d let in there, on accident, or something. She was way too trusting. He damn hated her. 

“Yeah, whatever.” He rolled over again—the other way this time—anything to stop staring up at that little face of hers, clean and unsuspecting and damn near perfect, though he’d never say that last part out loud. She really pissed him off. Just about everything in the stupid world pissed him off. What pissed him off most was that he could never really leave her. Even when this was all over, when she found her Sunflower Samurai and whatever the fuck else she had to do, he’d still keep her. Whether it be physically or mentally, he’d never be able to forget this stupid fucking girl. And that, more than anything, made him wanna punch something. He figured he’d punch Jin straight in the face as soon as he got back.


	4. first times

When they lay like this, together on the futon, Fuu felt somewhat peaceful. Safe, at the very least, although she wouldn’t speak up about that: he’d easily call her an idiot. Instead, she let her bare skin stick to his, and took quiet, deep breaths, so that she wouldn’t forget him when he left the next day, or the next, whenever. If she could, she would invent an interactive sort of film, so that she could always remember in great detail her moments with him. He had his arm around her, lazy, but there. So that she could rest her head on his chest. 

But Mugen was never one for relaxing. He shifted a little, tightened his grip. “So,” he said, and Fuu peered up at him. “My first time was back home.” Home, as if there were such a thing. He guessed that she thought of those islands as his home, because that’s what she would have called them. Sometimes, he ended up oversimplifying things, or maybe tingeing their definition just a little, so that she wouldn’t be scared, or worried, or sad. He hated it when she frowned. He wasn’t exactly sure why, though. 

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes still looked over the expanse of his chest and caught his, so he carried on.

“I was a kid, younger than you. Thirteen, fourteen, at the latest. Dunno the girl’s name; she was hot, though. I was one of the big-shot kids, you know, better than the rest. Not better than Mukuro—I was just one of his cronies, right—but my name was pretty well known. Wasn’t surprised that a girl’d try to get in with us.” He glanced down at her, but she merely blinked, and remained silent. “This was before he tried to get me with his sister.” At the mere mention of her, he scoffed. Fuu wished she could see the two of them now, because she remembered the faint hint of jealousy her voice had betrayed when they’d met. You’re so lucky, having Mugen around. Fuu wanted to prove how lucky she really was. She wanted that girl to see them like this, and to see Mugen kissing her—that was bad of her to think, she knew it, but it was something that she didn’t try to help. Fuu was extremely selfish about Mugen. 

“It’s after we’d just robbed a place; I had some cash in my pockets, was feelin’ pretty damn good about myself.” His finger moved on her arm, where he held her, stroking her skin as he spoke. “And she just goddamn presented herself, all, hey, you forgot something, and then she was on me, and I thought, ‘Hey, why the hell not.’ Felt damn good.” He didn’t add that it wasn’t as good as her; nothing would ever be as good as her. Actually, now that he’d started, he felt somewhat disgusting for relaying this story to Fuu. All that stuff was behind them. It was just the two of them now. He had this pure girl, and fucking her was like goddamn redemption or something, because she was such a little light, and he so dark—all the other shit could get left behind. But he’d already started. His finger sped up on her arm. “I realized right away that you gotta convince a girl to keep going with ya. Can’t just stick your dick in her. Gotta make her moan, too, right.” She was still just looking at him, wordless but with those huge eyes. 

“That’s where I first learned to make a girl feel really good. Not like I knew by myself, though. I mean, she taught me the basics.” He hated talking about this with her, actually. Not that it could even really be called that, seeing as she hadn’t said a thing. He let his story sit in the air for a moment, fat and drooping by the second, and then he let his hand still and then pressed the finger in. “What about you, girly? How about that first kiss?”  
As if she’d been waiting for the question, Fuu rose, still wordless (what a rare occurrence this was, that she really didn’t have anything to say, especially when he most wanted her to. Typical), and sat up on her knees. First, she bent over, and gave him a very long kiss, before twisting her mouth and pulling away. Once she was gone, Mugen drew himself up a little, watching her. She sat up on the bed, not even embarrassed over her naked body—not when she would have been, had it been a couple of months ago. He’d really ruined her, huh? He guessed he was kinda guilty.

“Well,” she began. She took in a big breath. “It was while we were traveling together. You know, one day the two of you had gone out, to the brothels, or whatever. I got very lonely, so I went out too—but not to the red light district, of course. I went and hung around outside a restaurant, on the back steps of it, watching the moon. It was small, and faraway.” She looked up at him, to make sure he was listening. He nodded a little, as if to say, go on. She couldn’t see that his hands had been clenched from the moment she’d begun. Actually, as soon as she mentioned that he’d been around when it’d happened—it just pissed him off, for some reason. “He was very nice-looking, kind of tall, with a soft face. I don’t remember his name, or if he even introduced himself. He told me I looked very lonely, and I said that I was, because these jerks that I thought were my friends left me for the night, again.” She spoke sourly and glared over at him. He didn’t smirk, which was odd. He didn’t feel very entertained. He wished he knew the bastard’s name. “He said he was sorry, and that it was his dad’s eatery, and he would treat me if I wanted. Of course, I said, ‘Don’t do that,’ because I wouldn’t be able to stop eating.” Now she was smiling again. He couldn’t keep up with her. “But he insisted, so I went along with it. He told me to order whatever I wanted—so I did. I mean, how could I pass that up?”

She put her legs down and crossed her legs, leaning back. He watched the moonlight on her breasts. God, she was beautiful. It was stupid, ’cause there definitely shouldn’t have been much to look at, but he couldn’t take his eyes away. Her eyes looked a little guilty.

“Anyway, so I ate a bunch of sushi, and about ten bowls of rice, and he even got me dessert, which I hadn’t had in so long… it was like heaven! I was so lucky, that night, that I forgot all about you and Jin.” If only she was telling the truth. If only she could’ve forgotten about him for a second! A measly minute! It would have been so free. “He said that he’d always liked a girl with an appetite, seeing as his dad owned a restaurant and all. It was only natural.” Mugen hated the guy, for some reason. “So we got to talking, and when I said I had to get home, he walked me to the front. He asked my name. Then, he said, ‘It was nice meeting you, Fuu. I hope to see you again.’ It was sad, because I knew we were moving on the next day, and that he wouldn’t. Then, he leaned over, and kissed me. It was wet and soft. Then, I went back to where we were staying, and waited for the two of you. You both passed out the second you got in.” 

She didn’t tell him that it was hard for her to fall asleep unless the both of them were back. She didn’t know what to do—she always felt like she would get taken away again, even if they were far from the village. Hearing him breathing in the room was such a lovely sound. She could even kind of stand his snoring.

Once she was finished, she looked right at him, and was surprised to see he didn’t look like he was about to make fun of her. Instead, he looked angry, and she got scared that he had seen through it, and realized it was a lie. She’d never gone out after them. She always stayed in and sulked, and waited. She missed them terribly.

“Mugen? What’s wrong?”

He growled and got up from the bed, and almost pounced on her, taking her lips in his fiercely, and forcing her head back to accept him. She complied, her mouth opening to form a gasp from the surprise, and he devoured the inside of her mouth, as well. When he broke away, she was panting, and he still looked so mad. She couldn’t figure it out.

“Why didn’t you figure out his fucking name?” he asked.

“It didn’t seem important.” She couldn’t think one up fast enough.

“Where was it?”

“Edo!” she exclaimed. 

He frowned at her, and shoved her towards him again. She complied, willingly crawling into his lap, and letting him jerk her head forward to kiss her again. She thought maybe he was trying to permanently bruise her lips.

“I woulda killed that fucker in a second,” he said. “He’s lucky you never said anything.”

It was then that she realized he was jealous—and that maybe even he didn’t know that he was jealous. She kissed him this time, gently, and let her lips fall near his ear. 

“I have a confession,” she whispered. She felt him tense beneath her. “I made that guy up. I never kissed anyone in Edo.”

“Then who didja kiss?” he snapped.

“Only you.” 

He smirked, then, and she figured that she’d just ended up feeding his ego. She guessed it was worth it, because he turned around and threw her back down into the bed, and got on top of her. She smiled up at him and explained that he was first at everything.   
“Damn right,” he said.


	5. some kind of modern au (pt 1.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mugen just... shows up sometimes.

At first, when it started happening, he didn’t really know what to make of it. It’d just happen at random; he’d be strolling through some inconsequential town on some inconsequential road, and he’d think of her, just suddenly, like she’d placed the thought there herself, with her sneaky, tiny hands. And then he’d get this thick urge to see her, and it started to really bug him. It’d bug him until he found her and walked right through her door. She always made so much trouble over him, over brushing out his hair like he was some doll, and over cleaning up his clothes. Once she’d even offered to buy him some new ones. He didn’t know where a kid like her got the cash to offer stuff like that. She probably just got everyone in the world to pity her. That was probably what he was feeling, too, right? Pity? He was nervous she was gonna end up hurting herself or getting hurt by someone else—after all, he had good reason to believe that. He’d had to save her ass more often than he’d done anything else.

Maybe it was just that he always wanted the normalcy of it, of saving her—of seeing her. He couldn’t bring himself to lay a hand on her unless she laid one on him first, and even then, he tried to stop himself. Once, when he’d come in all beat up, she’d gone to fix his wounds with alcohol and bandages, and she’d been touching him all over the place, with those pale-as-the-moon hands of hers, he’d wanted to slap her away. He was so worried all the blackness that scarred his tissue inside would start to leak out from his skin, and contaminate her. He was just one big oil spill, and she was a baby bird, who’d get caught in it.

But that day, it was different. She said she was tired, after work, and she looked really out of it. He felt bad for her—super bad. But also, he wanted to tell her to suck it up, ’cause he was tired all the time, and he didn’t say a damn thing about it. Or, at the same time, he wanted to lean over and pick her up and carry her to her bed, like he was some prince or some shit, when really he was just the asshole that mooched off of her sometimes. She didn’t need him to be there right then. Actually, he was probably just going to make a mess of things for her. More for her to worry about. When she’d come in, he’d been rooting through her pantry in hopes to find some sorta food, and had been busy shoving his mouth with some bag of something-or-other when she’d walked by. Only she could make him feel that way—like he had something he owed her, some sort of apology. And she didn’t even look put off to see him there. She just smiled her tired smile and went to sit down, not even a hello—not even any sort of scolding. He sort of wished she’d scold him more. Don’t get him wrong, she did do that a lot, but why couldn’t she do it just that day, right then? 

She slouched over on her couch and he made to leave. She had the TV turned on, but was hardly listening to it; instead, it blared over her face and the light reflected off her cheek bones. He wondered how he got stuck with some brat that was as pretty as she was. Didn’t even catch himself thinking things like that—that she was pretty. He went to open the door.

“Don’t go,” she mumbled, and her eyes drifted around the room and then over to his face. The idiot didn’t even sit up or anything, just kinda lay there with her eyes all hazy and focused on him. She was about to fall asleep, he could tell. “Stay here.”

He didn’t really have the heart to say no to her. He wondered if he really had any heart at all. 

So he walked over, and sat down right next to her head, very heavily. Her little forehead bounced on the couch cushions. She didn’t seem to mind. It took him a minute to find his voice, but when he did, he said, “C’mere.” He wished he could say that to her more. If he could, before he ever moved, he’d say to her, “C’mere,” like that, because she should’ve been everywhere with him. Always by his side. Or maybe he should never have the right to say it to her, because she deserved to be by some great man’s side, someone who deserved her, someone who could love her well. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to love. He just knew that pang in his gut when he hadn’t seen her in too long, and suddenly he just got this terrible feeling she was being kidnapped or something and he had to run and check on her and maybe look at her face a little bit and make sure it was the same as when he’d left it.

She did as he said, and propped her head up on his lap. He didn’t touch her; couldn’t touch her, his hands weren’t for that. They sort of hovered over her for a minute before he put them down. 

“Hey, Mugen?” she asked.

He grunted.

“Stay until morning,” she whispered. It wasn’t even night-time out. It was six o’clock, and the sun was just setting. He grunted again, and this time, raised a hand over her and rested it on her neck. She was always so soft. Maybe he sort of hated her for it. But maybe it made him feel that pang in his gut again, even though he was looking right at her. 

“Yeah,” he said. The next time he looked down at her, her eyes were shut, and she was asleep.


	6. what if he'd come back for her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we all kinda wished fuu and mugen and jin would all end up together again right?

Before Fuu, Mugen hadn’t ever believed in any of that love bullshit. He still didn’t know if he could feel it for himself, of course, but something about the way she said it made him unable to wave it away as a girl being damn crazy just like all girls were. And she didn’t say it much, just when she was scared for him. It was dumb, that she got scared for him like that, because when he thought about what she could do about he could only laugh. Fuu was weak. She couldn’t do shit. Why’d he even let her come around with him? She only slowed him down and made him miserable with her obnoxious, nagging voice. Sometimes she even asked to be carried, when they’d been going for a real long time with no food or water or anything, and she slumped onto his back with her cheek pressed against his and her thick mouth, then dried out and wordless, breathing softly in his ear. That slowed him down much more than anything else, if you were going to be literal about it. 

His favorite part of any journey was probably laying her down when he found a shelter, and stealing food for her and himself from wherever he could, and then running it to her and having her sate herself on treats. Sure, he ate so fast on his own that he practically gagged, but then he just watched her as she went on gorging herself long after he was done. Then they would sleep for a long, long time. Without having anywhere they needed to be, the two of them sometimes slept for a day or two until they got back up and ate more. They would awaken and be tangled up in each other’s limbs, and at that point nothing would really be stopping them, so they’d end up naked and doing what a couple of mismatched kids like them did when they were alone and naked. 

Well, there was one memory that he savored more than any other. One time, he’d stolen rum from somewhere, off some boat, maybe. He couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter, in any case, where the damn stuff came from. He’d given it to her, like it was just normal juice and she’d gotten real excited and drank a whole three sips full before her face scrunched up. Yeah, that was the first time he’d gotten Fuu drunk. She gave him back the glass and a blush covered her whole face, down her chest, too, he could see that much over the top of her kimono, and he had no doubt that her breasts were probably flushed red too. He hadn’t wasted any time in finding out. She’d been particularly responsive and sinful that night, probably more so than a good girl like Fuu would ever be without the influence of the rum, and he saved that memory up tight so that whenever he was out away from her for too long (and too long was never any longer than a day or two, because although he thought it funny to be greeted by a hungry and hugely upset Fuu, he liked it even more when she didn’t even have time to get hungry or upset) he had something to think of as he jacked off in order to get himself to sleep.

But anyway, Mugen didn’t think that love stuff could be in his own blood. Probably’d been smashed out after he’d been in a particularly bad fight. Maybe sliced out of him when he was a kid and he watched someone get murdered right in front of him. A brutal murder, too. None of that pansy ass stab-and-run shit. Nah, the kind of stuff that made people so sick they puked. Not him, though. Every once in a while he slipped and pictured Fuu’s face if she ever found out about any of that, and then he got real mad and smash whatever he was closest to. Then it was over. He had vowed when he’d come back for her that Fuu would never know Ryuku, or anything he had seen there. That she had to see the blood he spilled was enough.


	7. go to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jin sure likes to stay out late! who knew!

It pissed him off to hear her say that bastard’s name. Hated to see her even look at him. Who fucking saved her, all those times? Who was the one that tracked her down, burst in through windows, swam across goddamn lakes just to see her stupid face again? And she was always so happy. So relieved. Like she didn’t think he’d actually do it. “Mugen.” And God, did he love to hear it from her lips. It didn’t fit, and that’s what made it so damn good. Jin and her were too easily together, like two prissy pieces of shit like them would find each other naturally—he was kind, and she was sweet. He was moral, and she was trusting. 

And maybe it was true. He shoulda just left ’em. A happy pair of suckers, and who cared if she got kidnapped again? Who cared if someone spirited her away, and no one gave a shit? She was nothing to him, right? 

It was stupid, that he couldn’t even fucking fall asleep, as he watched her soft lips pout, highlighted by pale moonlight and way too many stars. He’d hated stars, ’til she came around—she’d taken his hand, one night, maybe she hadn’t even realized she’d done it. And she pointed, very quietly, like she was in complete awe. You could pretty much figure she’d seen stars before, it wasn’t like she lived in the middle of the red light district, where everything was shallow compared to the overbearing building lights. Still, she’d taken her bottom lip under her teeth and stared, and then squeezed his hand a bit tighter. “Orion,” she whispered, her voice barely-there. “Warrior. I always thought that he looked kind of stupid, because his head and legs are so wide.” She blinked and looked over at him, her mouth falling into a smile. “He’s strong,” she told him. “That’s why they’re like that. He won’t fall over.” She stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek, very briefly, so that he could only just feel her lips, cold, before she pulled away again. “He won’t move for anyone but himself,” she said. She released his hand, quietly admiring the constellation (which he hadn’t noticed, and still couldn’t find, even after she’d pointed), before looking forward to find Jin far ahead of them, and then running to catch up. Now he always looked for it, though the search was always painfully futile. He could hear her sigh in the window, which she hadn’t moved from since about an hour before. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget her stupid fucking face. Why’d she have to look so sad? On the floor, with the futon all laid out, he wished he could just pass out, like he always did. But of course, not tonight.

“Give it a rest,” he told her. “Maybe he’s not comin’ back tonight.”

“He has to,” she insisted. Her eyebrows scrunched up to the middle of her forehead as she did. She looked ridiculous, and awfully determined. Just another thing to hate about her.

“What’s it matter, anyway? The guy’s gotta have a life of his own, too, ya know. Not everyone can waste all their time on you.”

“Jin isn’t wasting his time,” she insisted, and he clenched his fists. Like hell he wasn’t. Any sucker who looked at her for more than a couple seconds had wasted his time. 

“Go to sleep,” he told her. “It’s late, and we’re not gonna stop travelin’ just because Glasses isn’t back on time.”

She turned around to face him—though it was rather sudden, and she spun on her stool before planting her feet angrily upon the floor.

“What do you care, anyway? You go to sleep, if you’re so worried!” She looked down at him as she said it, and all he could see was her chin and her white neck covered only slightly by her pink kimono. He wished it was open more. 

“It’s not me I’m fuckin’ worried about,” he spat, and then he rolled over on the floor, and shut his eyes. 

It was Fuu. He shouldn’t have expected to just let something drop like that—hell no. She wouldn’t let it. He heard her clothes rustle as she knelt next to him, and could feel the weight of her palms land on the futon as she leaned forward on them. 

“You mean—you’re worried about…” She blinked, shaking her head, then dismissing it. What a bitch. He shook his head, and sat up to look at her: she was close, though, closer than he expected, and his head nearly collided with hers. He really didn’t need to look her this close in the eye tonight. Not any night, but especially not this one.


	8. 100 secret senses

She had never known just his taste. It was always mixed with alcohol, and other women, and she knew that: she did not try to pretend she had his heart like he had hers. Mugen was Mugen. She would never have him if she declared herself to be the only girl he should ever meet. 

And so she had small tastes of him, though she could not taste just his skin on his skin, for that was always caked with dirt or her own fresh soaps, when she could convince him to bathe himself. His lips were dry, and nearly tasteless. She was sure hers were the same, for she, herself, could not taste her own lips. His breath was sour, most often. Sweet, if he had had rum, but that was rare. 

What of his smell, then? Was his smell his own? No, most often he stank, and that might have been him, but she did not want any of it. If he smelled too awful, she forced him away to some pond to have a bath. When he returned, he was never fully cleaned. Then there were the perfumes, too cheap for Fuu to discern whose was whose, when they all seemed to smell the exact same way: they smelled like large breasts pressed into his chest, hair done up with chopsticks and large flowers, like paper-thin walls… she hated it. She hated all of his smells. It was perhaps because none of them were really his. 

She hated, as well, that she always let him into her bed, even when she wanted to shut her door and leave him out there for the night. Mutts should be treated as mutts. He could sleep on the floor outside, just like dogs did. 

No, she would always accept him, and it was terrible.

It was the worst when it was late, and he was drunk, and still she slid her door open, and allowed him to press her heavily against her wall, and she closed her eyes and let out her tiny sounds as he rubbed at her and tore hungrily at her clothes.

She would count.

One, when he first put his lips to hers. Tasted like expensive alcohol, champagne, some import. His tongue on her, and all over her, too, like he was slobbering, and she let him. 

Two: when he began to make his way down her neck, she could nearly spot pink on his chin where someone had had their way with him, lip-stick-lips, possibly a lot more recent than she would like to guess. 

Three, the way his hair was tousled just like someone had put their hands through it, and she’d hardly even touched his hair, yet; she was too busy grasping at his clothes, herself, and tightening her fists in them as his lips moved down to her breasts. 

Four, as he swirled his tongue around them: she knew there was some reason she’d come up with the number, but as she moaned and her head tipped back, she had forgotten it. 

Five, when he couldn’t take it anymore and hitched her up, her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck: he smelled like he’d soaked in an opium bath, if such a thing existed, and she knew for a fact that he had never laid a hand on any opium himself, seeing as he had no spare change, when he spent all of his on pleasure houses. She ground her hips into his as he walked, and he laughed, and mumbled something about how impatient she was. He didn’t know that she’d waited since he’d last left; didn’t know that she would always wait, even if she had no way to know if he’d even come back the next time…

Six, when he laid her down (gently? could someone like him even be gentle?) on the futon and removed his shirt, seven, when he shoved his pants away…

Eight, nine…

Ten, when they finished, and he pushed his face into her neck and took a deep breath, and told her how good she smelled, and how he wanted to touch her, forever… And she couldn’t cry about it, because she was the one that had gotten herself into this, and she could very well just shove him away and never answer her door for him ever again, and this was her choice… 

And then he’d mentioned something like, “Baby, you’re so soft,” and kissed her forehead and she’d frowned in a direction away from him: he was already so sleepy, he might have not even realized she was still there, much less that her eyes were going to burst if he kept talking. 

All she could think to do was sink back into the futon and wrap the blanket around herself and push her head onto his chest, where she inhaled, too, but she couldn’t discern it. She could never be sure that the scent beneath her nose was just Mugen, or if it was the scent of hundreds of women, all mixed into one. 

Somewhere, she had to be there, too, but she could never find herself, there, either. Fuu wondered, for a moment, then, if she even had a smell.

It was possible that when he surely left the next day, there was nothing left of her on him, and as he moved on, back into towns and cities far away, he didn’t recall her at all, and only focused on the next whore house, the next painted lady… and she would be left without him, too, for a man without his own scent could not leave one behind.


	9. let's make a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she was there every day, after it happened.

She was there every day, after it happened. Nothing had ever scared her more, she figured: not even when they first appeared, and the little tea house had burned down. No, nothing could have been worse than seeing them both hurt and… and she’d thought they’d never wake up again, that she’d killed them.

So maybe, when she started whispering, it’d been for her own good. If she could talk to them, it was like they’d never been hurt. She needed it. She started lying down beside them and getting close to Mugen’s ear, as close as she could get, and told him all the things he needed to know. She told him she loved him, and had loved him, and every day a little more of herself chipped off and became his. Sometimes, she could only even cry. He always talked about how messed up he was, but really, it was her who was messed up. If she wasn’t so selfish, and hadn’t made him come along, he’d be okay right now. She kissed his unconscious face and figured it’d be her fault if he died. And same with Jin. It’d all be her fault. She wished she had never met them.

She cried when they woke up, too. It seemed like that was all she knew how to do. And eventually, she’d taken him aside, and told him all about it: how she’d fallen in love with him and how she’d never be able to forget him again, and how, if it wasn’t for her, he’d be happier, and he wouldn’t be injured, and everything that had happened wouldn’t have.

But, the thing was, he wasn’t mad. She’d been so confused, mostly because he was always mad, especially at her. He smiled, though. He rarely smiled at her, except for when he laughed at her stupidity, so she was greatly confused. Maybe he thought she was being stupid now too? It would make sense. He’d never really been able to take her seriously. But no, it was more like a grin—a smirk? So maybe he was kind of laughing at her, in a way.

“Shit, girly,” he said, “I’d be even more fucked up right now, if it wasn’t for you.” And then he yanked her up by her chin and smashed their lips together… though the kiss itself was kind of soft, which only confused her more. To top it all off, after that was done, he shoved her away. “You’re so fucking stupid, you know?” he asked. “Maybe this’ll teach you to never get involved with a guy like me again.” And then, since her chin was still in his hand, and all, he pulled it towards him and kissed her again, and again, and told her he’d never met such a stupid girl, and she reveled in it, because it didn’t sound like he hated her or anything, at all, but like he was reprimanding her… and maybe she could hear a little love in his voice, too, but maybe she imagined it.

After that, she couldn’t stop looking at him, and wondering how she’d ever managed to keep it inside herself. Maybe he was the stupidest man she’d ever met, too. And sometimes, she remembered the way he’d thrown his sword straight at her, and she’d flinched, but then the ropes had loosened around her and all she’d ever wanted to do after that was hug him so tightly that he’d suffocate. Once, she did. It’d taken him by surprise, which was lucky, because he’d never accept a hug from her if he knew it was coming. But once she’d gotten her face shoved into his chest, and her arms snug around him, he kind of lifted his own hands up to pat at her back.

She’d cried then, too, until his shirt was all wet. “You’re so stupid, Mugen,” she said.

Then, one night, after he fucked her for the first time, they made a deal. He told her he wasn’t really ready to settle down yet—no, he had to travel more. He didn’t tell her, but to himself, he thought, if he settled down now he’d have to provide for her, and he couldn’t do that while he still had this urge to fight, and to kill, and… whatever else rats like him did. There was too much. He was a little worried about her, too. She was such a delicate girl—too soft for the shit he did. She wasn’t ready yet, and neither was he. 

Give him a year, he said. Find some place. He’d track her down. Don’t worry about him, he’d told her. Never worry. He’d meet her in a year. He’d meet her, he thought, and then he’d tell her. Tell her that there’d never be anyone else in the world that made his chest feel this tight. No one else in the world he’d give his life for—no one else in the world that he wanted to rescue, and have rescue him. 

He wanted to smack her when she’d agreed, but she already knew, that was the real problem: she already damn knew that she was the stupidest bitch in the world, and she accepted it readily, every time she kissed him. She was okay being dumb, if it meant that she could also be with him.


	10. neighbors - modern au (pt 2)

Sometimes, he stopped outside her door, turned around, and left again. Her neighbors were growing to hate him. Some guy on the street who most certainly didn’t belong in the neighborhood, worthy of at least a few stares and many windows closing as he passed. He wondered if anyone ever talked to her about it, and what she said. But then there were the times when he locked eyes with those who snubbed him, and opened her door and when she found him, he made sure they were in front of a window when they kissed, so that just about everyone could see how much she wanted him there, and her little, innocent smile, and how she brought her hands up to his hair to keep him there. 

Yeah, sometimes she even made it seem like they were normal. She’d be cooking and she’d come out to meet him with her oven mitts still on, but she’d take them off and kiss his cheek like she was his wife, welcoming him home, though he’d never be anything like that. He would never forgive himself if he did that to her. He almost didn’t forgive himself now, and he hated her eyes, and how happy he made her. Should’ve had someone better. Anyone but him. Someone the neighbors wouldn’t gawk at, at the very least. 

The worst of it was when she’d tried to say those words. He’d felt them, on his lips, on her tongue, bracing themselves as they made ready to dip out into the world, where they would always exist, even if she went back on them later. Once something is said, it is born into being. He didn’t want that for her. Didn’t want for her to have that happen, because she surely only meant it for a while, but he knew if he heard it once he’d remember it forever. 

She’d been leaning on his shoulder, resting, blinking up at him sometimes, admiring his face, running over it with her eyes, and sometimes she’d raise her head up and kiss him, on his chin, or his cheek, or his neck. It made him sick. He wished he could push her away, but he just kept his damn arm around her, sometimes pulling her tighter against him. Always frowning. 

“Mugen.” His name sounded much too light, too airy, too damn sweet. The words existed before she could stop them; her intentions bore them into existence, and he brought his hand up from where it was around her shoulder and slapped it over her mouth.

“No,” he said, firmly. Her eyes got all big like she had no idea what he was talking about. “Don’t say anything,” he clarified. “Just relax.”

He could tell how bad she wanted to say it, and her lips opened and closed underneath his hand, until she simply nodded. Then, she turned and straddled his lap and kissed him, and that was that.

He’d asked her about the neighbors, once, too. He wanted to get her up against the window, curtains open, and let everyone see how he had this girl; the most pristine girl there could be, and this was what she was like. But he couldn’t. All he could do was motion towards the window, once, while they sat on the floor and played cards, and then say, “They ever give you any shit?”

She’d asked, “Who?” perfectly innocently, even though they both knew damn well “who.”

“Your neighbors.”

“Hm,” she said. Then, she shook her head. “No. They never say anything. I mean, sometimes they say hi, if that’s what you want to know. Also, they like to give me fresh fruit and vegetables sometimes, because they know I’m here alone, and—”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“About me. Do they ever give you any shit about me.”

Stupidly innocent. He wanted to punch her, or kiss her, or take her somewhere secluded, and have his way with her. Maybe all of the above. She shook her head, looking confused. 

“Why would they?” As if she didn’t know. 

“Forget it,” he mumbled. He threw his cards down, like a child. “I don’t feel like playin’.” 

She put her cards down too, perfectly composed, and crawled over to him. “Let’s take a bath,” she said. He hated taking baths with her. He made the water all dirty, but she liked to sit in there with him, and lay on him and sometimes she’d touch him, but also she’d wash his hair, and plant little kisses all over his face, even as the dirt dripped from his skin and into the tub. She probably had to re-shower again when he left, because bathing with him just made her dirtier, not the other way around. 

The way she was, on all fours, he could see straight down her shirt. She probably knew, too, ’cause he was just blatantly staring, but she didn’t say anything. He’d taken away so much from her. He remembered when she would’ve whacked him over the head and called him a pervert. Now, she just looked at him, smiled at him, watched him, even though he was disgusting and not even looking at her face. He sighed, then. She was too much for him. Too fuckin’ good. 

“Fine,” he said, standing up. “Fix your damn shirt.”

She blushed only a little, but her mouth stayed soft and malleable and smiling, as she stood up as well. “Okay,” she said. She put her arms up around him, though, (she had to lean up on her tip-toes, and even then he was almost a head taller than her) and whispered into his ear. “One day, you can take me around the neighborhood. I’ll hold your hand. When we get to the end of the block, if there are people staring, I’ll just turn around and kiss you. Take me out.” She moved to catch his eye. “I’m yours, you know. No one can do anything about it.”

He grabbed her and pulled her up into his arms, so that he could carry her bridal-style. She squealed and giggled and threw her arms about his neck. “Forget the bath,” he told her. “We’re going to bed.” 

She didn’t disagree.


	11. tattoos - modern au (pt. 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhh anachronistic? perhaps.

He was really distracted, she figured. If he was letting her do this. Usually, if she tried to pull anything touchy-feely, he retreated and didn’t even look at her for the rest of the night. But the television was playing, and Fuu guessed that he thought the leading actress in whatever was on was really hot. She wouldn’t know. She wasn’t watching. At some point, she’d stealthily reached over and taken his hand in hers. And she was just tracing absently over the tattoos he had. She’d always been fairly fascinated with his tattoos—how they’d gotten it to be a perfect blue circle, and all. It must’ve taken a lot of work—it must have hurt. But she knew she couldn’t even ask, because even if it’d hurt, he’d never say. Occasionally, her eyes flickered over to him, but he had his eyebrows furrowed and didn’t look like he was about to notice her.

Then she’d started putting her hand over his and under it and intertwining their fingers. She compared the sizes of their hands for a bit, too. His were so much bigger. He wasn’t that much older than her, too, but he seemed like he knew a lot that she didn’t. Well, obviously she was smarter. But that was book smarts, and even with that sort of thing she wasn’t particularly good. But at least she could read. Sometimes, Mugen just seemed like he was from another planet. A planet she’d never been on—a planet that she’d only heard of briefly, but one that she could see in his eyes and his face and the way his muscles were always so tense. 

She brought the fingers on it up to her lips and kissed them each, one at a time. That was when he jerked his hand away.

“The fuck are you doing?”

That was more like it, though. She was glad she’d gotten at least something in before he pretended that they’d never even kissed. He liked to pretend that they weren’t in a relationship at all. But she didn’t really care. She knew that he liked her a lot, even if he didn’t say it. At least, she had to keep believing that, otherwise things would be bad.

“Nothing,” she answered. Then she smiled and turned and went to kiss his face. She would never tell him, but she liked the feeling of his stubble on her lips. All rough. But he stopped her and sort of moved out of the way, jerking his head to the side to avoid her mouth. She fell forward and into his lap. Well, he couldn’t stop that, right? Instead of navigating away, she simple turned herself around and relaxed over his knees. His frown told her it was uncomfortable for him, but she didn’t much care about that, either. She reached for his hand again.

“Stop.” 

She stopped, and looked up at him. All she could see was his chin. “What?”

He’d stopped watching TV. He was frowning.

“You even know where these tattoos are from?”

She thought about it for a second, but realized that she’d just assumed they were your average, ordinary, every-day tattoos from a parlor. If they hadn’t come from there, then where would they have come from? “No.”

“These are from prison,” he said. Completely without emotion. She could hear the implication of stupid bitch somewhere in the back of his throat, but he didn’t say it.

“Oh.” 

She shrugged and frowned at him, because she did want to kiss him, but he’d told her to stop. She sat up and looked at him quizzically, before leaning forward again, lips poised, so that she could do it.

“What are you doing?”

She whined briefly and explained that she was kissing him. He asked if she still wanted to. She said that yes, of course she did—she always wanted to kiss him. He sighed and stuck out his wrist so that she could go back to her game, kissing the fingers and the wrist and everything else. Maybe she was dumb. She liked him, though. Nothing would ever stop her from that. Not even prison tattoos.


	12. can you sleep as easily if you've seen too much shit?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apparently i only know how to write about sleep....

She was the only person who could make him feel really stupid. Especially when she was asleep, like she was just then, having tucked her hands up under her head and curled her legs into her chest on the couch. He wasn’t sure what to do. Leave her? A girl like her would get sore from sleeping like that for too long. She was too soft. If it were him, it wouldn’t make a damn difference. Sore or not, he was sure that he’d gotten used to just about anything that could happen to his body. He’d been sliced open, for Christ’s sake. But she was different. 

Laying like that, she looked sweet. With her mouth shut, and all. He always ended up thinking she was alright when she wasn’t speaking. And he always ended up wanting to kind of put his hand on her, not like in a bad way, but kind of just like, on her arm or something. So that he could feel how she was so unmarred by everything. Every part of him was scarred and harsh. She had been through some shit—not as much as he had, for sure, but more than most—and still, she had the ability to fall so fast asleep. She didn’t snore, just breathed slightly, and he could see her stomach rise and fall. Sweet breathing, he thought. He felt stupid for thinking it, too. Like any breathing could be sweet.

He scratched the back of his head. He’d come in kinda last minute—it was late, after all. She worked really hard. He kind of hated that about her. How did she do it? He would get fed up with everyone almost immediately—how did she manage to be so sweet, even when everything sucked so much? Well. He couldn’t just leave her, that was for sure. He’d hate himself (though he wouldn’t let on) in the morning, if she complained of her back hurting, or her arm—or anything. He’d know it was his fault. That he could’ve done something. 

Of course, there was the fact that it was just a damn couch, and she’d get over it, and it was such a small issue. And yet, it seemed so very big. He went to her, and sort of rolled her back a bit, so that she wasn’t curled up on her side. That way, he could get his hand under her knees and the other under her neck. He hoisted her up, and she didn’t stop her light breathing, though she stirred. It wasn’t until he had her half way to her bedroom before she opened her eyes, groggily, and said his name aloud in wonder.

“Mugen…” she whispered. Her head was on his chest, and she shifted it back to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry ’bout it,” he said. He shoved open the door with his knee and placed her on the bed as gently as he could. He wasn’t a very gentle person. It was pretty hard not to just drop her there. Why’d she have to open her mouth and ruin it? 

She quickly returned to her fetal position, though she stretched first, and made a small noise as she did. Then she curled the blankets around her shoulders, and shut her eyes, snuggling close to the pillow as she did. He hated her. She was so annoying. He wanted to kiss her, too, but not even on her lips, right then—he kinda wanted to put his face in her neck and just breathe there for a little while. But he wouldn’t. Of course not. It’d be stupid. 

It was silent for a moment, and he thought about turning around, but he couldn’t seem to move. He could only stand there, with his now empty hands shoved into his pockets, staring at her. He felt pretty clueless. 

And then, shaking her appearance of sleep, she squirmed again, and opened her eyes groggily to look at him. Her face was puzzled. “Are you going to stay here?” she asked him. One of her arms came out from under the covers, and her hand sort of searched around in the open air beyond the bed. He could see goose bumps form on her soft skin from the cold.

He scoffed. She was the most annoying person he’d ever known.

“Yeah,” he said. He walked around to the other side of the bed and discarded his shirt on the floor. Then, stretching like she had, he stuck his arms high above his head. His noise was much louder than hers had been. Then, he collapsed onto her bed, a pillow already laid out for him. Stupid of her. Always so expectant and thoughtful. He’d rather sleep without a damn pillow, he figured.

She wormed her way closer to him, finally planting herself just beside his form. She whispered goodnight, and was promptly asleep again.   
He lay awake for a few minutes, his hand finding its place in the space where her hip curved inward, and he stroked the soft skin there. So soft. Too soft. It was tempting to scratch his nails across it. Instead, he let it fall still, and then closed his own eyes, until he, too, was just as asleep as her.


	13. don't say it (modern au pt 4)

They’d been fooling around when she said it. It was in a whisper, and an accident. He always got mad when it seemed like she wanted to say it, and told her to save it—he didn’t wanna hear. I love you. So when the words fell out of her mouth like pebbles into her lap, she immediately flinched. She’d ruined it, she knew, when he pulled away. It wasn’t a mean pulling away. He kind of froze for a minute, but they’d been about to go back to kissing, so he kind of planted a messy kiss on her lips before pulling away all the way. He had his arms around her too, ‘cause he’d been shoving her right up against him.

He stood up and her arms went with him, tugging on his shirt, trying to get him to stay.

“Mugen, it’s okay,” she insisted. “I don’t expect you to love me back.”

“I know,” he said, serious for once. “I gotta go.”

She watched him as he left, out the door, closing it quietly, as if he was trying to respectfully disentangle himself from her life. As if Mugen could ever be respectful. Even when the intention was there, he’d somehow managed to rip out a Mugen-shaped hole from her chest. 

The rest of the day, she went about in a slump, half expecting herself to fall slack, as she felt so heavy from his departure. It always hurt when he left. But at least usually it was silent, and sneaky. This time he had not even bothered to hide it: he was leaving her; he couldn’t handle her; he didn’t want her. There-you-go. In-bold-letters, written-right-out. 

And she let him do that to her. She figured—yes, she loved him. Loved him too much to even want to hamper him and keep him to herself. She loved him too much to even say a word. 

She was back in the position she’d been in when he’d left, cross-legged on the couch, with the television flickering, when he walked back in again, this time quite fluidly, and with purpose. He knelt before her on the couch, immediately, drawn as if there was a little string connecting her to him, and he could find her that way. He put his palms on her face, calloused, rough, and she closed her eyes before she even knew that he was going to lean up and kiss her like he did. It was a hard kiss, one that left a vague ache in her lips, but she reveled in it. He’d never kissed her like this before, holding her there by her cheeks so that she couldn’t even move to breathe. She let him. 

And when he picked his mouth up, it came crashing down once more only seconds later. He made a grunt and she gasped and she could feel his grin on her mouth. He pulled away from her and looked her straight in the eyes, and then squished her cheeks together.

“You stupid bitch.”

She blinked.

“You deserve someone so much better.”

There was a moment of silence as she looked at him and he looked back. Then, she took in a big breath.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t love someone else.”

He made a strange noise that sounded like a growl and then his lips were on hers again, and she couldn’t focus but she could feel spit on her chin, ‘cause she’d been distracted and forgotten to swallow it, and she could feel how his tongue ran all around her mouth, and how he was really warm and good. Good enough that it made her whimper. 

“Listen,” he told her. They were both breathing hard once he let her go. “I never felt love before. Don’t know what it’s like, so I can’t tell you any bullshit like that.” She nodded very eagerly, and he swore to himself that he only knew how to hate her, and he most definitely hated her then. “But if it makes you goddamn happy,” (he wondered how he could ever make anyone happy, much less a pretty girl like her) “I’ll stay with you for as long as you want.”

She’d stopped listening after stay with you and threw her arms wildly about him, over and around his neck, one hand coming up to hold his face as she shoved her lips back on his. She scrambled, trying to kiss him just like he’d kissed her, the type of kiss that thoroughly knocked-him-out. She wondered if he’d ever uttered anything like that to anyone else, but was secure in knowing that he hadn’t. He was Mugen. Never loved anybody. But this made her feel like maybe—maybe, after all, she couldn’t be sure—he loved her. Even if he didn’t know it.


	14. oh.

Should’ve just let her wonder about it, at night. She would’ve, too. She would’ve tossed and turned and made those girly little sounds she made sometimes, when walking for too long got to her, or when she ate something extraordinarily delicious. Yeah, she probably didn’t even know she was making ‘em. But he heard ‘em. And they made his fucking ears strain to listen for another, maybe, just if he was lucky, but usually he only got the rare one between hours, and hours of nagging. So anyway. She’d be up in bed and maybe he’d wind up in her mind, which would be fucking hilarious, that little virgin Fuu would end up thinking about some villain like him, and he ignored the fact that the thought of it turned his gut. So he’d be in her mind and then she’d think of it, and wonder about it, and wonder, and wonder, and maybe she’d be real angry, and she’d take that bottom lip of hers under those teeth and bite it in curiosity, possibly in annoyance but hey, that was really alright too, and she’d twist around under the covers with him winding himself around each little cloud of imagination that she had until she was finally able to shut her eyes.

Shouldn’t have taken her chin in his hands, roughly, forcefully, like everything else he did. Shouldn’t have tightened his hold on it until she made a noise of pain and tore away. He had to give her pain. It was like she didn’t believe he would, like she thought he couldn’t hurt her. He damn well could. He’d kill her if he goddamn pleased, and she had to know it. 

“You wanna know, girly?” he’d said. She’d scooted away after he’d squeezed her face, and she still didn’t move back to him, not yet. Good. Fucking better that way. “You _really_ wanna know?” Her whole body leant forward, tiny chest visible over the neck of her kimono. Yes, _yes_ , she was nodding, rapidly, intensely. He felt kinda bad her for, almost, or maybe he would’ve if all that emotional bullshit hadn’t dried up in him a long time ago. She thought it was somethin’ real great, better than anything in her little world. Maybe it was, or could be, for her. For him it was just business. 

See, she’d asked about where he went after she was already in bed. Sure, she knew about the Red Light District, she wasn’t _stupid_. But what did he do in the whorehouses, she wanted to know. What was so great about women selling their bodies? What did they do? It woulda been so easy to just fuck her up right then, say somethin’ like: _You could do it too, baby, I’ll show ya how._ Damn, maybe she’d even be kinda hot—sure, she didn’t have tits, but she had this great ass, and he’d noticed, of course. 

So they’d been sitting in her damn room at the little shit inn they were staying at, because he’d somehow been lured in there (“Mugen? I have a question for you.”) and of course he couldn’t just leave without saying anything. Well, he could. He damn well could. Yeah, hey, why didn’t he just do that?

In the moment, it hadn’t even seemed like an option. It’s just, damn, she had those stupid fucking eyes and those real soft looking lips and she—damn, he was so fucking stupid. She was just another bitch. 

He took in a big sigh and she was excited, real pumped for it, like it was some huge secret that was finally being revealed to her, right into her ears, where it could rest in her brain until she whipped it back at him in some fucking obnoxious way or another. He didn’t even know how she’d been sheltered from it so long—she ran into her fair share of perverts, didn’t she? Didn’t she just _know_? He wasn’t a fucking babysitter—wasn’t gonna answer any damn _how are babies born_ questions.

“Dunno,” he finally said, and put his arms on his knees and stared at her. “Can’t really explain it.”

Her gaze fell and she dropped her head and he knew she was upset, but damn, he couldn’t tell her everything. Some things you just had to figure out for yourself. And she was like, what? Fifteen? Whatever. He’d known all about this shit by that time. But then again, he’d also grown up in Ryukyu, and Fuu had just been in her damn café and with her mom and all that. Mom. Mugen didn’t even know what that shit was like. 

“Please? Mugen?” She was trying again, the little bitch. He wished he could call her something worse—bitch, skank. But it didn’t _fit_. It was _Fuu_.

“Listen up,” he told her, and couldn’t look right her way. He scratched his chin and heard the bristles there against his finger. “I can’t tell ya. You want that sappy bullshit, go to Jin.”

“What sappy bullsh—What sappy stuff, Mugen?”

“ _Fucking_ ,” he spat at her. He was suddenly real mad and she was the closest person. “We _fuck_ , okay? That what you wanna hear? It ain’t your style, kid. You want some girly as shit husband and you wanna have nice little kids in some house on a beach or some dumb shit like that, don’tcha?” He spit into a corner of the room, but it landed only a couple inches away. When he looked up again, she was right there. 

“I don’t want any of that,” she said, acting all like she was so much better, like she knew some big secret. Yeah right. She was the dumb one. He had the secret. Right? Right. “I just want you to tell me, like you do. What’s it _like_?”

He was quiet again, maybe even thinking a little, but mostly he was just pissed. “I said I _dunno_ , dumbass. You wanna know so bad?” He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the front of her kimono, like he was gonna punch her or beat her up or something, and she even flinched. Fucking _finally_. She was getting it. But he didn’t do any of those things. He took her lips hard against his and forced them open and his tongue was in her mouth, and she let out a little noise but then her eyes closed, and it was all just really harsh. Teeth clacked, tongues slid over each other, heads tilted and noses bumped. Damn, maybe his brain woulda been goin’ crazy, but he just wouldn’t let it. Just another dumb bitch, just another dumb bitch. That was all. Just showing her what the fuck it was all about. 

Then he got her down to the floor, pushed her down real swift so that she let out a puff of breath and he was on her again. He still had complete control, he was just gonna show her. He got his knee up between her thighs and rubbed, real quick, just a little, but enough so that she broke free from his mouth to whisper a moan into the dark room.

Then he dropped her damn kimono, pink like she was a little girl, and backed away from her again. Fuu didn’t move up from the ground, but it didn’t matter. He should’ve given her a second to breathe maybe, but he didn’t want her to lose the feeling of it. 

“You feel that? Imagine that, but like, times one thousand, and it’s just goin’, and goin’, and you’re like, you don’t want it to stop, and then it does but it’s the best thing there is, and then it’s just over and you gotta pay up.” 

“Oh.”

Goddamn _oh_. Fucking _oh_. He hated her. He knew she felt it, could tell because her cheeks were all pink and she was just staring at the ceiling with her arms up and crooked by her head. She was just a kid, and he was just a stupid criminal, and fucking _oh_.

“Don’t ask me that shit again,” he told her.

“Yeah,” she whispered, and her thighs moved and pressed themselves together. He could see her eyebrows move down, could see her thinking to herself, and damn if he didn’t wanna know just what the hell was going on up there. “And you do it like that every time?”

“No,” he snapped. “It’s better.” But you’re a kid.

“Oh.”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” he told her, and stood up and didn’t bother making sure that she moved around to get back under the covers. He didn’t fucking care. Let her do what she wanted. He was going to the Red Light District.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> italics galore!


	15. a villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> these start getting repetitive after a while sorry!

She was an idiot. Practically suicidal, if he thought about it long enough. It’d been—a normal day. He thought about their days and they somewhat melded together, as if there was no break for night, not even when they slept, because she was there, and only when she left would it ever be truly nighttime. He remembered that once, almost a week ago, logically, but to him only a day ago: she had grabbed his hand. Wouldn’t look at him, afterwards, either. Only, he knew that she still realized what she was doing. Probably unconsciously, her hand would tighten around his, and he’d feel it and smirk down at it, around his, too small, and too pale, but firm. What a girl. A stupid girl.

Was she his girl, now? When he’d kissed her, that once, and she’d almost set him on fire, he could feel the core of the earth reach out to grab for him, as she pressed her lips back onto his, opened her mouth, brought her arms over his head. He remembered shoving her against the wall; it’d been too much for him, finally getting to touch her, and hear her, beneath him, as she breathed and whined and whimpered, and he’d possibly gone too far for her little self. She was really too small to be around him. It wasn’t her age; she was grown enough to know up from down, right from wrong. It was her eyes, big, brown, doe-like, or a lamb—a dumb lamb, really, one which was led to be sheared without protest. Later made into meat for dinner, unblinkingly. He hated her, sometimes, and the way she’d been so kind to him the next day, even though he’d ruined her skin with his hands, too rough on her. It wasn’t painful, she said. She wanted him to do it again, sometime. To touch her. He hated that girl; why should she be his girl; he hated her.

And still, she kept doing that: pushing herself onto him. Near him. Beside him. Around him, all the time, until her voice, even in its nagging, was practically white noise. It was white noise until she said his name, even angrily, but more likely, softly, “Mugen,” as she tried to disentangle herself from his touch, to draw some line that he felt should have been drawn long ago, to kiss the side of his chin (the only place she could reach) and come away. 

She was asleep, head propped against his chest. He couldn’t think about it, about how he could kill her, if he really wanted. He’d bring his knife up into her breast, to her heart—skip the torture, but just push it in until she could feel the slow burn like he felt, the slow tearing of all the skin and arteries as they halted their thump, and became tangled. She mumbled his name and pushed closer, her mouth slightly open, the breath entering and exiting in small snores. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’s the one that’d climb through her window, take her from her bed, steal her away. He’d be the one to ruin her, he knew. He was the one she was afraid of. Or, well, supposed to be.

He kept doing all that dumb stuff, that bursting into burning buildings and sudden arrivals at brothels, all that saving bullshit, because he wasn’t the one that’d ruin her. That was why. She was pure white, and he pure black, and if any black leaked into her—if it so much as flaked near her skin, he’d rip her away. He brought his one arm over her back, wishing there was some way that he could slip it under the cloth there, and feel that soft skin. No, he didn’t deserve to do that. Just deserved to lay there, sleepless, as she dreamt, and drooled unknowingly onto him. She would clench her eyes and loosen them again, and he would watch her, every twitch of her face. Every last damn twitch. He was afraid to fall asleep. If he fell asleep, he’d hurt her, wouldn’t he? Forget, and plunge a rusted knife through her gut. She didn’t realize that she shouldn’t have been sleeping next to him. Should he doze off, he was sure that the black on his skin would peel and brush into hers, to be absorbed and accepted into her system. She’d turn. She’d become black, and he’d hate her. Couldn’t fall asleep. Couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t stop watching her, stupid girl, as she dreamt on his chest.


	16. i'll give you my firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> like i said, super repetitive my b

If Fuu had ever put any weight on firsts at all—well, it was lucky that she didn’t. He wouldn’t be with her right then if she did, was what he couldn’t help but think, as he lay at her side, arm under her back. She had curled herself up against him, typically, as she did when they were finished. He’d never much understood that whole thing. Oftentimes, he would hear her mumble something about, “Stay for the night,” and at first, he’d never paid it any heed. Of course, after a while, he started listening to her, just for the hell of it. And he really never got tired of watching her eyes when she noticed he was there. He was always awake first, but he never moved from her bed, simply because he wanted always to see her first inkling of consciousness, groggy and then wide-eyed, and then her smile, as it spread from cheek to cheek. Would he ever want to leave her again at night? She was so annoying. No, he figured. Not if he could help it—he wanted to always be around to see that stupid smile. It was like some dirty trick she didn’t even know she was playing.

But, anyway. He remembered when she’d acted like a virgin. Had he robbed her? It kinda felt like that was what this was, just him stealing from her, again and again: stealing wetness from her little pink lips, stealing innocence from every crevice of her mind. Even the ones she hadn’t known to exist. He was terrible, and every day he wished she’d realize it and tell him to go. But she kept clinging onto him—Stay for the night—until he was just as used to it as she was. 

He remembered when she’d never let him see her naked, when she’d locked the door to shower. When she’d been so self-conscious. Now they showered together. He stripped her clothes off of her quickly, and she never had any qualms. He’d turned her into his own whore, and he damn well knew it. Yet, why wasn’t he sorrier than he was?

In any case, he once asked her about it, on a night much like this. He could tell she wasn’t asleep: her breathing wasn’t all heavy, and she wasn’t snoring. Yeah, of course the little bitch snored. Couldn’t even be quiet in her sleep. He’d been running one finger over the curve of her hip, feeling how soft it was, and she kept shivering like she was cold, even though she was pressed up against him beneath the blanket. He almost offered to go grab some clothes for her to put on, but if he did, she would’ve denied it for sure. She liked to feel his scars and bruises and all his puckered skin against hers, where it would gain not a single bruise, despite its being exposed. She was so stupid.

“Hey,” he’d begun, and she’d opened her eyes very groggily. What an exaggeration—she wasn’t even that tired, and hadn’t been at all since he’d arrived. If anything, despite post-orgasm haze, she was incredibly wound up.

“Hm?” she asked, all innocent. He pinched her side, where his hand was, and she squeaked slightly and backed away. He didn’t know why he’d done it. Actually, he kind of liked having her there, all close to him. She curled back within a second, the idiot. Never learned.

“You ever regret anything we’ve done?” he asked. She looked rather confused, eyebrows knitting together in honest confusion. He really hated her sometimes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” was he gonna have to spell it out for her? “Like how I was your first kiss.” He was her first for a lot more than just that, too. He could feel her little body sigh and relax, and one of her arms come up over his chest, ’til her fingers touched his lips. She pulled at the bottom one, at least until he gave her an annoyed, “Hey,” in way of scolding her. She only smiled and let out a small giggle.

“I like your kisses,” she admitted, her fingers trailing over his cheek and down his neck. She rested it, finally, on his shoulder, and propped herself up with the other one, so that he could just barely see where her breasts began as she lifted her head. With his eyes, he traced over all the bruises he’d left on her neck and shoulders. He’d like to think they were beautiful, but it seemed like quite an ugly necklace for a girl like her to wear, all those marks from him. They’d look better if they were from someone else. He’d only marred her.

“Yeah, but I mean, don’t you regret that they’re mine?” What was this shit—he didn’t need to talk to her about this. He didn’t need to talk to her about anything. He was just there to fuck around with her for a while, right? No, something reminded him. He was there for more. Stay for the night. She lifted herself over him and leaned down to plant a small kiss on his lips, like a child, wet, and it made that little smacking sound, too. Maybe she was just a kid. That thought made him feel pretty gross.

Once she lifted her head away again, she fell down atop him, and propped her arms up on his chest, and her chin on top of those, and looked up at him with her big, stupid doe eyes. He could almost puke. Why did he even like this girl? She gave him her innocent smile again, and he thought, maybe it was because it was her that she didn’t retain any damage. Like, the bruises on her neck always healed, and gave way to more soft skin. He’d never truly ruin her. Actually, it was probably more like she was cleansing him. Maybe that’s what he got out of it—out of sticking his dick in some perfect little girl like this. After he left, he always felt—clean. Stupid, he knew, seeing as he was the dirtiest bastard you could find. But when she kissed him, like she was just then, leaning over where his shoulder and neck met, planting her lips lightly over the skin there, he felt like she was cleansing him. Making him less of a monster. After all, if a girl like this could touch him, be with him so thoroughly, and still come out to be such a hopeful, sweet—albeit annoying—girl, then how bad could he be, really?

He could see the words fumble on her lips, her wish to say them, “I love you,” but he rolled them over and claimed her mouth with his before she could. He swore he wouldn’t be able to take it if she said that just then.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said into her mouth. “You wanna do it again?”

After all, they were far from firsts. Her face lit up and she propped herself up on her elbows to force her mouth more thoroughly onto his, and nodded, all too exuberantly, all too readily. Fine, then. If she was so ready to give up all of herself to some disgusting man, then who was he to stop her? Let the stupid girl do whatever the hell she wanted.

She still managed to say it, though, after they were finished, and back under the covers, and she seemed a bit more tired the second time around.

“I _want_ to give you my firsts.” Words he couldn’t have dreamt up himself. Or maybe he had, secretly, and then blocked them from his memory. It felt like she was sliding herself into place in his life, and that was dangerous business. “I want them to be yours,” she said, so softly, that he doubted if he even heard it at all. After all, wasn’t that just like saying, “ _I_ want to be yours?” And that surely couldn’t be right.


	17. forget all that

They’d run into him by accident. Fuu didn’t even really know his name, to be quite honest: he’d grabbed Mugen up in a headlock and Mugen’d nearly beat him to a pulp on the spot, but recognized him at the very last second. His fist was about a centimeter away from striking the man on the nose. Fuu kind of wished he’d done it, as sitting there, in the tea house she’d offered to take them to so that they could “catch up,” was getting awfully uncomfortable. 

Mugen had introduced her as, “My girl,” which had sent an undeniable spark of surprise from the base of her neck and on down her spine. Sure, he was acting like it was no big deal, as he slung his arm messily around her, but Fuu had been with him for a long time, and she’d never felt like he was showing her off as much as she did at that moment. 

Apparently, he was a pirate. He wasn’t like any of the pirates Fuu had met before. He wasn’t brash or inherently mean—at least, so it seemed on the surface. He even treated her with good enough manners, nodding to her when she’d been introduced, passing her a glass of sake, although she’d passed it up. 

Two jugs later, and the pirate finally aimed the conversation at her. 

“So, then. What’s a pretty thing like you doing with this scummy bastard?” He motioned to Mugen offhandedly, and Fuu didn’t follow his hand, but instead looked straight into her lap. She knew that it didn’t matter what she said: she could stand up for him, mumble about how he wasn’t that scummy, but this pirate probably knew a lot more about Mugen than she did. Or she could have said, “I love him,” but that wasn’t a generally accepted answer at all. He was probably asking about what piqued the love, and Fuu really, honestly, didn’t know. She just knew that she loved him. “Don’t act so coy,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “He’s a pirate, for fuck’s sake. You must know about the kind of shit he’s gotten into.”

“I do,” she agreed. She felt herself scooting closer to Mugen, so that she was almost brushing the side of his chest. She’d never pretended that he hadn’t done bad things. But he’d never done a bad thing to her. Not any big, bad things. That had to mean something.

The pirate turned to Mugen, then, and laughed. “And she’s still with you? Fuck, you must’a done some good shit in a past life to land someone like her.”

Fuu flinched closer to him. He didn’t move. 

“Yeah,” he said.

“Now tell me, girl. Mugen here ever told you about the time me and him were in Edo?” Fuu shook her head. She knew that, somewhere by her shoulder, Mugen’s hand had clenched into a fist. “Me and your boyfriend here, we raided this town, right? Fucking killed everyone.” It almost seemed like he was taking pride in it. Mugen’s jaw tightened. 

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” And now, it almost seemed like he was playing at innocence. Almost. He wasn’t quite there. “She’ll wanna hear this.” He turned to her. “Anyway, we go into this town. We steal everything. Food, booze, clothes. But back to the killing, yeah? We killed the men first. Just fucking sliced them to pieces.” Fuu’s gut churned. She thought maybe she was about to cry. “We were about to get the hell out, but Mugen here, since he’s such a good pirate, and all, just says, ‘Let’s just kill ‘em all.’ And we do.” He smirked. “We fucking torched the whole place. Ain’t that right, Mugen?”

There was a pause. Mugen swallowed, hard. “Yeah,” he said. His voice was kind of gruff, low. Like he hadn’t talked in ages. She didn’t have to look at him; she already knew it. Knew that he hated every second of it. And she hated it, too, because… because since they’d been like this, happy, together, he’d almost forgotten all that bad stuff. He loved her and she loved him, right? Wasn’t that all there was? She wanted to wipe the sins away with a handkerchief, like wiping ash off his face was the equivalent of clearing him from his past. And maybe she’d kind of done it, on that journey. She’d separated him from all that. 

But now it wasn’t so separate any more. She stood up frantically, wildly, and bolted from the tea house. She didn’t want to pay for their sake, and she didn’t want Mugen to be in there a second longer. But instead of saying anything, she just started crying, like that was all she was capable of, and by the time she got far enough away that she was almost to the docks, her breath was coming so hurriedly and her face felt so hot, that she couldn’t discern the feeling of crying from the feeling of having run too fast, too far. 

Maybe she hadn’t even really expected him to follow her, but he did. She was scrubbing rapidly at her face with the sleeve of her kimono when he reached her. He was quiet, and didn’t say anything until she was finished crying. 

“I didn’t want you to hear all that,” he said. She sobbed again, felt weak, rushed forward to cry into his chest. He didn’t even seem to care, instead grabbing her harshly by her shoulders and pushing her forward, so that he could hardly hear her as she soaked his shirt. “I was fucked up. It’s not like that anymore, baby.”

“I know,” she nodded. 

“Then stop crying, alright?”

She put her arms all the way around him, hugged tight, then tighter. “I don’t want you to remember that stuff,” she admitted. “I love you so much.” The words bubbled up into her mouth faster than she could say them, and her voice was still shaky. 

“I know, girlie,” he grinned, and leaned down to kiss her hard. Kissed the breath right out of her, like he was trying to get the tears to vanish under his lips. Or something. But it probably didn’t seem like that to him, only to her, and it almost made her want to cry even more, except he’d said to stop, so she didn’t. “Don’t ever stop, okay?”

She shook her head, yes, very quickly, and he grabbed her hand, to escort her back to the inn where they were staying. Sometimes, Fuu felt like all she did was cry. And maybe she was dumb for doing so. But he’d never cry, not ever, so maybe she had to cry for the both of them.


	18. seaside dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she always hoped she'd see him again.

Maybe she sometimes had imagined—longed. But by no means had she ever assumed it, nor had she found it even remotely possible. After their journey, she’d settled in a small teahouse beside the ocean. She disliked the ocean. It was darkly salty and reminded her of him, so that every time she peered beyond it, she remembered his hair wet after he’d swum across the bay, and rescued her, that last, beautiful time… of that ship blowing into orbs of orange fire, when he’d rejoined his pirate cohorts. She imagined all the ways that the ocean could have dragged him down. His chest, heaving, when she had found him that once—alive. And still, she could not tear her gaze from it, of course, imagining that one day he would pull into shore on a large and surely illegal ship, and she would run out to him, wrap him tight in her arms, and hold fast. That’s what she should have done. What she always regretted. Why had she let them away? Them, yes. But—mostly him. 

And she was used to life now, of this somewhat aching remembrance, which was unshakeable and which felt as if someone had taken a pair of chopsticks and pushed them around her stomach ’til the insides of her were scooped out like rice. Yes, she imagined, and longed. She pictured him pushing the curtain of the teahouse aside (gently? It had seemed like a god was entering back then. A terrifying god. She shook in her sandals. He’d rescued her, she knew. A savior with a sword and a tanto hidden up his sleeve—the only sort of savior she’d ever want.) and stepping in, falling in beside her memory like two crisp photos piling atop one another, and fading together with unmistakable precision. 

But she had never assumed that would happen. She assumed just the opposite. That she would marry some poor boy with a good heart, and they would have children one day, and she would always be a measly waitress, and he some butcher’s son, or something of the sort. Maybe she would be happy. Though, she bristled when any boy came near her, and felt herself sizing him up in her head, wondering if he could hold a sword, and if so, how well. 

When she heard the metal of his geta on the floorboards, that day, at the teahouse, she felt her stomach drop, but could not turn around. No. Definitely not. She had heard this sound before—variations of it, for many men wore similar sandals. This sounded much too close to the real thing, and if she turned and saw some fat villager, she knew that she would cry. Her knuckles turned quite white around the tray of tea she was holding. If only she did not have to keep imagining it. If only she could get it through her head that these were just pipe dreams. She hated to hope. Absolutely despised it. And she most hated how she never seemed to lose hers, even when all signs showed that she should.

She heard the man continue to walk, and she was sure it was a man, as women were much more spry, and softer on their feet. Well, those who weren’t her, at least. She called politely over her shoulder that she would be with him in a moment. The little cups on the wooden platter jittered with her shaking hands, and she wondered if her voice had stuttered, as well. 

“Hey,” she heard him say, in a mumble, and also slightly annoyed. No, she knew the voice, and it terrified her. She wondered if she had lost her mind, and if her ears had been corrupted. “Is that any way to treat—” a falter, rare. Perhaps unheard of. He did not know what to say. _An old friend? Someone like me?_ “me?” And she turned and her tray slipped and the little cups hit the floor with a thud and she ran to him like he was a buoy and the sea was trying to take her, slipping up from the bay and wrapping its cold hands around her stomach. She was crying—she always cried. Her arms wove around his neck, her fingers slipped into his hair, and she hugged him so tightly that, if he were any other man, she would’ve worried over his back breaking. She could feel that for a moment he was confused. Unsure of what to do. 

The people in this town loved her. She was small and lovely, and very nice. She played with the children and spoke to them in a motherly tone, like she loved them sincerely. The other waitresses envied the way that the dock boys would come into the restaurant and ask for her to wait on them, specifically. But no one could hate her, for one look into her sad brown eyes let on that she had lost something quite dear—and how could you do anything but pity a girl who looked like that?

His brown arms came around her, still hesitant, but firm. He pushed her hard into his chest, and she felt her tears soak his shirt.

“Mugen,” she whispered. She almost asked aloud if she was dreaming, but she didn’t—people in dreams never answer that they are dreams. She knew from experience. This scene had been a common one for her subconscious to dwell upon. Instead, she pulled herself away, and, eying him with suspicion, brought one hand down from his neck and pinched the arm of another. It stung and she felt a fresh wave of tears flush her face to pink.

He grunted at her. 

“How are you here?” she wanted to know. He shrugged, and let her go—he seemed to have forgotten, for a moment, his image. Convict, walking death threat. He took it up again a little awkwardly.

“How about somethin’ to eat,” he said. She nodded, the tears still thick in her eyes, and she showed him a seat and rushed to pick up her tray and the cups, squatting down and working her little hands quickly. She brought him dumplings. 

That evening, he waited for her, and walked her home. He asked how she wasn’t dead yet. She wondered the same about him. 

“Guess I’m invincible,” he said. She wished it were so.

She took him in that night and made him dinner. Afterwards, she set up a spare tatami mat for him and went to her futon to sew. He would leave, she realized. The feeling that she was finally full after having starved for so long was only temporary. Soon she would go back to staring at the sea. He would leave again, just like he had back then, and she would be alone. She got up and kissed him when she realized it, hard and long. He grabbed her ass and she squealed and yanked herself away.

“Didn’t know you felt that way, girly,” he said. 

She explained that she had always felt that way. Always wanted to kiss him. He made some growling noise—he was animalistic and crude—and grabbed her again, shoving her hard against himself as his tongue slid past her lips. She brought her hands to his chest and gripped the fabric there in her hands, tight. 

“Please,” she whispered, their lips separating by centimeters. “Stay here tonight.”

He smirked at her. Her chest fluttered. With a nod, he pulled her down to lay on the futon with him, and watched the moon reflect curves of white over her cheeks and neck. It would be hard to leave.

Maybe he wouldn’t. She curled into him and he let her, and she later would fall asleep just that way, unmoving and so very trusting. Her little lips would form a faint line of discontentment, and he would feel her clutching him harder.

It would be hard to leave this little girl. Maybe he should never have. Feeling her hands firm around him, he suddenly wanted to stay with her forever. Or—no. He realized that he had always wanted it that way.

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my favorite of these, so it shall be the last. hope you enjoyed; now i dont feel so bad about these sitting alone in hard drive limbo


End file.
